


Your Last First Time

by storybycorey



Series: Bunsen Burner College AU [3]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 12:25:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7934542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storybycorey/pseuds/storybycorey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College AU, sequel to “You’ll Forever Be in Debt to a Bunsen Burner” and “So Much Better Than a Cherry Gumdrop” (both found here on AO3).</p><p>“I want you to be the one.”  </p><p>You tell her “okay” and wonder what you possibly could have done in your sorry-ass life to deserve this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Last First Time

Tomorrow will be three weeks. 

Three weeks since you first tasted her beestung lips on a black, leather couch while sending telepathic thank-you notes to a Bunsen burner.

You’ve been together since then. 

The phrase still surprises you when you hear it. You’ve never “been together”. With anyone. Sure, there’ve been girls—at parties, in bars, in the backs of friends’ cars— but none that ever lasted. None that ever earned “together”.

Until now. In three weeks, you’ve wedged yourselves into each other’s lives as tightly as a dovetail join in a dresser drawer (your father was always a stickler for high-quality furniture). You dread each hour spent apart, each night she retreats to her dorm room without you. Her lipgloss lingers on your lips like oilslick across a puddle, and you want to die when it finally wears away (admittedly, you tend to be a bit over-dramatic at times).

You’ve scrapped Psychology, and are now officially majoring in Dana Scully. You’re currently enrolled in Kissing 101 (who are you kidding, you’re probably well into Kissing 201, or possibly even 301 by now). Her kisses are textbooks unto themselves, and you’ve crammed for hours preparing for her tests. 

Your notes are a jumbled mess, full of words like “lush” and “supple” and “blossoming” (you’ve got a very poetic libido apparently), full of phrases like “her tongue tastes like raindrops” and “her lips flow like honey”. Your favorite though, one you’ve highlighted in yellow for importance—“the nudge of her hips against my thigh is a refuge.”

Technically, that last one isn’t on the test, but you hope it’ll earn you extra credit.

….

While her kisses are glorious, her mind is where your true addiction lies. Beneath the shiny copper penny of her hair is an amusement park’s worth of clever games and death-defying rides. You buy yourself a season pass and show up each morning as she opens the gates.

She’s able to outfox you (ironic really, isn’t it?) with such ease, it leaves you breathless. Discussions with her have become your new favorite game, and you beg to play again and again and again. You’ve never known a girl who can bicker like her—who can put you in your place then kiss it all better, before you even realize she’s won.

She’s unlike anyone you’ve ever met—hard and angled when necessary, yet soft and smooth in all the places that count. You can’t believe you’ve been given the honor of learning to navigate between.

You’ve given her a nickname, in a backwards sort of sense. You’ve always had a way of doing things differently. “Scully”, you call her, and though she rolls her eyes and says she feels like a football player (you’ve never seen a quarterback with prettier curves), it somehow feels more perfect sliding from your lips than anything else you’ve ever said. 

She calls you “Mulder” once, and your knees buckle.

….

She allows you beyond kisses exactly three times. Perhaps the love notes you slip in her Advanced Calculus binder have something to do with it (what can you say—she brings out your inner Romeo). Or is it possible she’s fallen as devastatingly hard for you as you have for her?

The first is an accident. Your hand slipped, you swear. But before you can think to stop it, your fingers are smoothing over the swell of her rear on pure instinct. You brace for a gentle “too-far” nudge, but are instead gifted with a hungry moan, sliding down your throat like vodka. Her bottom is as firm and ripe as a tomato, and you feel the sudden urge to down a Bloody Mary.

The second you’ll admit is no accident. You take her to dinner and debate evolution (a requirement for any two self-respecting college students). Your forks spar on the plate just as cleverly as your voices spar above it. She arches her eyebrow and wears a shirt (is it technically called a blouse when you’re eating at a fancy restaurant?) that is so distractingly tight, you may let her win the argument. 

You wonder whether she planned it that way.

Later, in the back seat of your car, you suck on the skin of her neck while she lets you win the next round. Her breasts are soft and small and wonderful through the cotton of her shirt, and you marvel at the fit of them in your palms. You marvel at the fit of her in your life. You’ve been missing a Dana Scully-shaped piece for twenty-one years, and now, at last, you’ve found it.

The third is your favorite though. You’ve always said the best things happen at midnight. She walks with her hand in your pocket, and the mood is slow and thick and delicious. You make a joke (it’s bad, you admit), and her “you’re crazy” travels straight to your dick like a lightning bolt. 

The brick wall behind the Department of Sciences is lit by the moon, and she grins like the Cheshire cat as you press her against it. You grin back, then claim those smart-assed lips for your own (because really, there’s no other option, is there?). When she unbuttons her shirt and slips your hand inside, you almost come in your pants. 

You add a new phrase to your notes after that: “The pink of her nipples is as sweet as cotton candy.”

….

“I’m a virgin”, she tells you in a whisper at 2 A.M. You press the phone to your ear like a seashell and let the tide of her words wash through you. You can’t help but smile just a little. The thought of sharing her with another guy (even from the past) makes your heart ache.

“I want you to be the one.” 

Your gasp catches in your throat the way Yogi Berra caught a baseball—quickly and precisely. Somehow you knew, but it’s different than somehow knowing—hearing her say the words.

You tell her “okay” and wonder what you possibly could have done in your sorry-ass life to deserve this. 

Neither of you disconnect, and it’s the most precious ten minutes of your life, sitting silently on the line with her, knowing you’re the one.

….

It’s special after that. Not that every moment spent with her isn’t special, but the weight of that knowledge hanging over both of your heads is a wonderful thing. Glances have meaning, touches have purpose, words have significance. You find yourself grinning like an idiot in the middle of a Forensic Psychology lecture (and serial killers are nothing to grin about). 

The secret you share wraps itself around your every encounter like fancy giftwrap. You count the days until you can tear it away.

Four days, to be exact—your roommate will be away for the weekend. She smiles and ducks her head when you tell her.

What you don’t tell her is that you’ve marked it on your calendar with an “X”. And a tiny heart, if you’re being honest (she’s making you soft, and you secretly love it). You make a trip to a swanky candle store in the mall and spend forty-five minutes deciding on a scent. French Vanilla it is— the woman tells you it’s an aphrodisiac, and you figure you can use all the help you can get. You buy ten of them.

….

Four days later, she looks beautiful lingering beneath the archway of your dorm. She bites her lip when you tell her so. She’s a perfectly precise blend of Old Hollywood Glamour and Girl Next Door, with smooth waved hair and strawberry-flavored lips. You know because you taste them. 

You’re nervous and giddy and terribly turned on, just by her mere presence beside you. She smells like Chemistry labs and Bunsen burners and pure, sweet, girlish anticipation, and you’ll be damned if that isn’t more of an aphrodisiac than the French Vanilla. 

You ask if she’d like to grab some dinner (please say no, you’re ashamed to think), and the look in her eyes as she shakes her head tells you she’s thinking the same. You hold her hand as you ascend up the stairs to your room.

She raises her eyebrow at the ten burning candles (if your R.A. knew, he’d kill you), but then blushes with her very next breath. There’s nothing in the world like knowing you’ve charmed the girl of your dreams.

“Th-the couch!” she gasps, unaware that you’re the proud new owner of the black behemoth where you shared your first kiss (your buddy’s new girlfriend has very particular tastes). It’s finagled itself into your dorm room as tightly as a Tetris piece, but it couldn’t feel more perfect. She slips her fingers into your hand and pulls you over to sit.

“I love it,” she whispers, while modestly kissing your cheek. You wonder whether she notices you shaved—for her.

“I’m glad,” you whisper back, while chastely kissing her jaw. You wonder whether she chose that plunging neckline—for you.

You look into each other’s eyes in that cheesy romance novel kind of way, trembling and smoldering with need (okay, you’ve read a few romance novels in your day), but once you work your way through the cliché of it, you find a truth there that’s absolutely exquisite. The two of you are connected on some plane that exists beyond the realm of this known universe. You can feel her in your bones.

“Scully…, I mean Dana…,” you bumble.

“Scully,” she murmurs encouragingly, “I like it when you call me Scully…”

“Are you sure about this? I… I don’t want to pressure you….” You pray that she’s sure, because you couldn’t live with yourself if she’s not.

“I’m sure…” 

She glows in the candle-lit room. “I’m so sure…, so very sure…,” she whispers again, and then she’s there, her lips soft and warm against you, showing you just how sure. 

You’re drawn to her immediately. She’s molten iron and you are her magnet— it’s useless trying to fight it. You think perhaps you’ve felt her pull for years, but never have had a name for it. 

She lifts her shirt over her head, and the sight of her pale, pink skin leaves you breathless. How can she possibly be real? Beauty like that belongs in a museum, in a cathedral, not sitting next to you in your dorm room on a secondhand leather couch. 

Your hands skim gently across her curves and dip cautiously into her valleys. Her breathy sighs encourage you even further. You revel in the softness of her skin, with your fingertips, with your tongue—she’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched by far.

She catches your eye and licks her lips, then cups you boldly through your jeans. You thrust against her (nice restraint, Don Juan) and she giggles. But then she’s unbuttoning and unzipping, and nobody’s giggling anymore. It’s suddenly real and now and happening.

“The bed,” you manage, as her hand slides inside your boxers.

“No,” she murmurs against your neck, “Here. I want it to be here…” You couldn’t agree with her more.

Clothes are shed like fall leaves, scattered and piled on the floor. You feel the sudden urge to jump in them and celebrate. 

But then you look at her. Sweet and flushed and brilliant against the black of the leather. And your heart quite literally aches at the sight. This girl has become your entire world in less time than it takes to reach midterms. 

She lies back and pulls you to lie above her. You brush the hair from her cheek. “I think I may love you,” she whispers, and the words flutter against your chest like moth’s wings.

“I’m positive I love you,” you answer her back.

“Okay,” she smiles, then stretches her lovely neck up to kiss you. She takes a deep breath. 

“Ready?” you ask, and she nods. She closes her eyes and sucks her bottom lip between her teeth as you put on a condom and press against her entrance. Her fingertips grip at the skin of your shoulders. As you press inside, she whimpers. Further, and she gasps.

“Am I hurting you?” You’re so aroused, it’s painful, yet the thought of hurting her is unbearable. 

“A little,” she admits, “but keep going. Please keep going…” She tilts her hips toward you, and you groan.

You imagine yourself as a glacier, moving so slowly it’s almost imperceptible. Until finally, finally, you’ve melted your way inside her. You breathe a sigh of relief, sweat dampening your brow, and try not to focus on the perfection of her body wrapped so tightly around you. Your dick is the luckiest eight and a half inches on the planet right now (yes, of course you’ve measured).

She releases a whoosh of air you had no idea she’d been holding, and looks up at you with eyes so deep and blue, you think you’ll drown. And then she smiles. And you suddenly know that your life will forever be measured according to this moment in time—the moment you ceased being a half and became a whole. 

“Okay?” you ask.

“Yeah,” she sighs, “It hurts a bit, but yeah…,” then turns her head to the side and laughs with relief. 

You kiss her along the angle of her jaw and slowly begin to move. And Jesus Christ, it’s divine. 

“Oh!” she exclaims in surprise, “Oh my God!” She’s so adorable it hurts. She gasps and slides her tongue along her lips, then arches up to meet you. “It’s…oh! God… it’s so intense….”

You nibble at her neck as she wraps her legs around you. “Yeah?” you ask against her chin.

“Y-yeah….,” she gasps. You thrust a little harder. “Just go slow, okay? But God yeah…,” she gasps again.

You go slow, and the air of the room fills with your sounds—your grunts and groans and her sighs and whimpers—as you share this precious gift with her for the very first time. The leather of the couch squeaks with your efforts. She cries out occasionally, but you hope your kisses and caresses help soothe the pain away. 

Until you’re standing at the brink, and you realize there’s no holding back.

“I’m gonna… I can’t stop!” you apologize frantically, but she grips you to her breasts and kisses your lips and tells you it’s okay. And it is okay. It’s so, so much more than okay, to be held in her arms while you let yourself go, while you share your entire being with her.

….

She waits for you afterwards up on the bed while you snuff out ten burning candles. In a burst of sentimentality (those damn romance novels again), you pull the Bunsen burner from the shelf. 

Placing it on the table, you say, “I’d light it, but unfortunately, dorm rooms don’t come equipped with a gas line.” 

She smiles the most glorious smile you’ve ever seen and beckons for you to lie down next to her. “It’s okay,” she whispers once you’re there, “We can pretend.”

And so you do. You lie on the bed and wrap her in your arms. And it’s the most perfect thing you’ve ever done, lain on a bed with Dana Scully and pretended to watch a butane flame from across the room.

You listen to her breaths grow slow and steady, then press your lips against her temple until you can barely keep your eyes open. You know without a doubt that this is your very last first time.

Before you fall asleep, you add one more line to your notes. 

“In her arms, I have finally found my sanctuary.”

**Author's Note:**

> There is a sequel to this story called "The Way You Say Flerovium" (here on A03).


End file.
